Rose Thorns

 ______My dog was halfway toward the center of the lake, swimming eagerly toward something dark in the water: a massive black duck with one feather that stuck up like a cowlick does on a small child with unruly hair. The duck had a brass beak, beady eyes, and was as still as a decoy near the lake's edge up until the moment my dog darted after him. With a great leap and splash into the water, Gunner was off like an Olympic swimmer, his orange hunting collar catching the sun like a traffic cone in hot sunlight. He was determined to catch this duck even though it swam incrementally farther away from him.

 ______With each stroke of Gunner's paws against the water, the duck quacked. Quack, swim forward, quack, swim forward, quack, duck-paddle forward a little faster, quack, I'm scared this hairy beast is gonna get me now, quack. It was almost as if the duck was saying, "Stop. Please. Stop. Go away. Stop. Omuhguuhuhguhuhhhhhhh. BRUH."

 ______I think he was.

 ______I followed Gunner around one edge of the lake, only to watch him swim after the duck in the complete opposite direction. Now, the edges of the lake aren't friendly mowed lawns from backyards that were smooth and easy to glide around; rather, they are infested with tall grasses, brambles, and thick ferns that gathered dragonflies, wasps, and other insects gifted with flight. My legs were scraped from hobbling over uneven ground and brushing past spindly weeds.



 ______I reached the shore of the lake where Gunner was closest, huffing and puffing and not ready to blow any houses down, and also sweaty as a gym sock that had been used for not one cardio workout, but three. There was a long scrape on my lower leg and another on my ankle. I poured over the events of my dog and his duck-wrangling adventure, helpless to do anything, praying he would not drown of exhaustion from chasing ducks. If I had to, I would jump into the lake and rescue him. But that time had not yet come. I still had hope, though it was very little.

 ______And eventually, and thankfully, and perhaps with enough thinking that I somehow rooted the duck on to speed up just enough, the duck with the skewed feather had gained enough distance from my dog that Gunner stopped swimming and merely paddled in place. Gunner recognized that he would fail to catch up with the duck. He was lost now. He looked around; to the left, to the right, to the left again. He was directly in the middle of the lake.

 ______And there it was.

 ______The neighborhood swan.





 ______Now, the neighborhood swan is no kind feathered friend; rather, dear Charles--oh yes, he has a name, a rather polite name for a rather impolite creature--dear Charles is quite the nasty little scumbag. Born to kill and burning the fires of hell within his soul, Charles did whatever he could to wreck havoc among the lake and any humans who neared him. He possessed a mighty, shriek-like hiss and a threatening wingspan that a small jet would cower in fear at.

 ______Gunner knew that this swan was no equal adversary. Charles would often paddle to where the lake met our grassy backyard, waddle up to the shore, and hiss at Gunner just for giggles and shits. Occasionally the two would have an amicable meeting where Charles may fluff his feathers and Gunner may simply cock his head at the swan, but mostly the two were sworn enemies with their teeth gritted.

 ______Thankfully after some flustered paddling from point A to point B, to point B to point A, and even sometimes from point A to point C and back to B, Gunner returned to my calls and swam up shore, avoiding Charles the swan. He crawled up the sandy shoreline, placing a paw on a dead crawfish as he did so, and shook the muddy water from his back (and on to me, naturally). I yanked him by the collar all the way home, fringing the overgrown edges of the lake, relieved that my sweet little puppers didn't drown doing what he loves most: hunting ducks and responding to the nature's wild call.



Sheer rose bodysuit: Urban Outfitters (similar)
Skirt: Urban Outfitters (similar) (similar)
Heels: Stein Mart (similar)
Necklace: Nasty Gal
Rose earrings:  similar

Remnants

           My bike whizzed along the hot pavement, its tires crunching rocks and spitting them out behind me like tiny meteorites. The sun had finally submitted to the clouds that had rolled in, leaving me with a breeze that was as cool, calm, and collected as an Abercrombie & Fitch store’s atmosphere. Except thankfully, the outside smelled much less terrible and much more like dirt and honeysuckle. I prefer dirt and honeysuckle over the migraine-inducing stench of an A&F store any day.

            I biked on past the familiar trees, turn-offs, and corroding metals that littered the old highway. I had biked this road hundreds of times due to the low traffic and rolling slopes and remembered a variety of landmarks that described the locals: a butterfly banner that whipped in the wind and whispered, “welcome,” a house with a tin roof that shined copper and nickel, a rusty '48 Ford with one broken light, and a rocking horse that sat on the porch of a fenced-in home. 

            I heard a rumble of thunder. It was faint and far away, but I was arrogant and confident enough in my biking abilities that I figured I could out-bike any storm if necessary. Screw Tornado Chasers, I was the Tornado Runner Away-er. Let it be known that I did not realize I could not out-bike any storm if said storm was coming from the direction of my home. Naturally, I thought it was going to always be behind me. Naturally, I was an idiot.

            Suddenly, a vertical strike of lightning branched down from the sky and struck the ground in a nearby neighborhood. I totally flipped and made a verbal screech. A car coming from the opposite direction had its windshield wipers on, indicating rainfall. The lightning strike was followed by a boom that shook the ground. There were flashes of lightning that lit up the sky, flickering on and off like the lights in a room.

            As soon as the cars had passed, I made a U-turn and headed for the hills (aka my parents' home). I was about three miles from home at this point, but it was no use: the thunder continued to boom and crash like Zeus had started a rock band, intense lightning show included. Honestly, Zeus? This was not the time. 



            The lightning went sideways and flashed even quicker now; Zeus must have hired a hoard of Pikachus to help with the light show. I turned off at a nearby town and rolled my bike under an arched alcove. There was a fire station in my view. Under its awning, sitting casually in rocking chairs, there were a few men sipping some beers, laughing, and pointing at the skies. I checked my phone and my dad was already on his way to rescue me from the freaky-leaky skies. Just as he pulled up in his rumbling Diesel truck, the sky broke open and soaked us both.



            Cheers to Daddy Hval for rescuing me in the midst of an immense downpour... he's the real MVP.

Lilac and Quartz

______Five years.

______Five long years.

______That is how long it's been since my last "real," in-salon haircut. But that all changed this past week.

______The room I entered with my mother was spacious and tidy with pale planks of laminate flooring coursing mindfully from wall to wall. There were typical decor items dotting the entrance of the hair salon that could be purchased through local home stores: a jade buddha head, a lattice screen panel, wrought-iron wall pieces, the souls of the damned... everyday stuff that made a place feel a little more comfortable. Orchestrated Michael Bublé music (sans those deep, delicious Bublé-tastic vocals) strummed through the air.

______To the right was a waiting room filled with chairs and stacks of old magazines that described the absolutely enthralling journey of how a female celebrity gained five pounds over winter, and how it was just so insane and noteworthy enough to be the cover story. To the left were black pleather swivel chairs that faced mirrors so that one could watch as their preciously-grown hair was snipped away.

______Amazing how one's dutiful hair growth can be lost within seconds. It's like when you take weeks, nay, months, to get rid of four stubborn pounds, and then eat it all back in one sitting with a deadly but delicious brownie sundae extraordinaire.

______Just me?





______Before I knew it, I was seated one of the swivel chairs to the left. The tiny woman who was previously at the front desk was suddenly behind me and pump-pump-pumping the seat up so she could reach the squirreliest tips of my scraggly blonde hair. It splayed along my back like Medusa's reptilian hair, only hers was likely more tame.

______It had a mind of its own, this hair, frequenting local gas stations to purchase chilly cherry slushies, causing petty drama in local pet stores like scribbling "YOU GOT PUNK'D" on turtles' shells in white chalk, and tripping small children. These long and gangly ends of my hair were misbehaving like a teenage punk or a very naughty garden gnome. These ends of my hair had to go.

______The woman said some things to me about how she'd fancy working with my hair, and I never really managed to get a word out on how I wanted my hair; she intuitively begin spritzing my hair with water, combing it, and snipping away as if I was a shrubbery in her yard that she knew the core of so very well.

______Rather unlike me, something about her allowed me to trust her with as she did her thang... Likely because she told me I looked like Cinderella. I could totally deal with being a Cinderella shrubbery.



______Chunks of my hair dropped to the planked floors soundlessly like rose petals on still water, or the severed heads of one's enemies during a heavy snowfall. The woman expertly wove her comb through my hair, smoothing out pieces and trimming the ends, measuring deftly as she went. She was a tiger in her natural habitat, hunting for the best 'do. The comb slid through my hair easier and easier with time's passing and was soon able to go through all of my hair: please note this is a thing that has never been done for many years.

______She was complete.

______I had survived.

______I barely even cried.

______Eye of the tiger.



Dress: Lulus (similar)
Heels: ASOS (exact)
Tassel necklace: Charming Charlie
Earrings: local artisan
Bracelets: local artisan
Infinity bracelet: c/o BornPretty

You You You, Me Me Me

______Blogging seems so selfish sometimes: snapping photos of your outfits, scrawling personal thoughts which trickle into digital text, dubbing yourself the monarch of this online assemblage of photos and words created by you, you, you.

______But.

______To me, blogging isn't a selfish thing. I think it's brave what some post online to initiate conversations, and admirable how they can share their thoughts and be so forthright. I believe blogging is about creating connections not only with others but also with yourself, perhaps even about revealing things to yourself.





______Maybe at first you began blogging with an interest in fashion or beauty and wanting to express that, but soon became conscious of your interest in traveling, or discussing some particular aspect of your life, or writing silly stories that maybe only ten people read a week. Or perhaps after months or years of blogging, your posts evolved to the point of realizing all of your passions and the common thread between them. Because that's what's important: your passions. Your appreciation for things. Your appreciation for other people. Self-discovery, self-acceptance, comprehending yourself as a single living entity that germinates thoughts and actions which are purely your own.

______Coming to terms with those things... your interests, your likes, your dislikes, the things that make you tick tick tick, the things you struggle with internally on a daily basis... can be difficult. But writing these things out to an anonymous audience that doesn't judge but understands helps you in your journey to becoming you.



______And discovering who you are is important since you're stuck with yourself your whole life. Totally wild, right? But you are, so you might as well get to know yourself. Take yourself on some dates. Write about yourself. Take care of yourself and buy yourself a chocolate chip cookie every now and then. Or a raisin one, if you're into that kind of thing.

______I digress. Since I've started blogging, I've learned so much: I've bettered my photography to the point where I know what aperture is and could actually explain it to someone, written more than I ever used to, and have realized I need to snuggle and pet more chickens in my life. Like, tons more.

______I'm picturing one of those ball pits but instead of being filled with colorful plastic balls, it's filled with chickens I can gleefully maneuver through. It shall be formally dubbed The Chicken Pit and all are welcome to revel in its earth-shattering glory.

______Why do you blog?




Top: Charlotte Russe
Skirt: Modcloth (similar)
Jelly shoes: BooHoo
Necklace: Nasty Gal (similar styles)
Earrings: Charming Charlie
Ampersand ring: c/o BornPretty

Memory Affair

______My fondest memories of any holiday dates back to the wee grasshopper days of elementary school... I remember a lot of the day in and day out of grade school, like visiting the library, playing Oregon Trail during computer lab days, and those irresistable, oozing cheese sticks paired with chunky marinara sauce during lunch. However, what I most vividly remember is those details of whenever our class would perform some kind of creative endeavor.

______I remember carving boats out of soap with metal shaping tools and how carefully I tried to make it smooth as marble. I remember the smell of that specific soap and the way it felt so satisfying in my hands. I remember how we were carving them in the hallway on a cold day, and the sun was shining through the window on us. I remember how the class next door was growing plants in little baggies and they were pinned up against the windows while we carved away.



______I remember when we had to be a part of the Wax Museum, where each student would create their own "set" by painting a backdrop for a specific person who they deemed important to history. We all lined up throughout the school and parents came and listened to each of us, the wax statues with stories to tell. I was Laura Ingalls Wilder and dressed up accordingly. I remember painting a backdrop with a covered wagon, and a dark sky adorned with cut-out stars I wrapped in tinfoil to make them sparkle.

______Because stars are actually made of tinfoil.

______The more you know.

______And then during Thanksgiving, we did a variety of crafts like making headdresses and turkey hands, but I remember my favorite was making these tall, skinny candles. We were to take a long wick and dip it into this vibrant red wax, pull it up, let it dry, and dip it back in. I remember being so amazed at how the material stacked atop each previous layer like icing on a cake. I always liked things that were hands-on so I could see how I could manipulate the material before me. It made more sense that way.





______But sticking to the holiday that's relevant, I remember how during Valentine's day, everyone would bring in an empty, washed milk carton, and we would spend the day decorating them with foam hearts, stickers, cut-out pieces of paper, and paint pens, all in a variety of reds and pinks.

______And then we would all line our sweet carton creations on a long table. Over the course of the week before Valentine's day, we'd make cards with candy, drawings, and puffy stickers adhered to the inside, all along with a loving message that were likely scribbled in red crayon or cherry scented markers. We would deposit these cards inside the cartons and open them up before Valentine's.

______What are some of your most vivid Valentine's day memories?


flowers from daddy Hval :)

Kimono: Alter'd State (similar)
Dress: KnowStyle (very similar)
Boots: Chelsea Crew (similar)
Necklace: c/o BornPretty
Whale bracelet: vintage